Through the grey dawn the swallow lifts her wing,
Morn-plaining bird, the harbinger of spring.
Anticipate the time: the care be thine
An earlier day to prune the shooting vine.
When the house-bearing snail is slowly found
To shun the Pleiad heats that scorch the ground,
And climb the plant’s tall stem, insist no more
To dress the vine, but give the vineyard o’er.
Whet the keen sickle, hasten every swain,
From shady booths, from morning sleep refrain;